Perhaps my only form of worship
is movement. That has been consistent
throughout. Not prayer to a god
on a throne with angels hovering
on either side: in Catholic school, after all,
I was in a remedial prayer class.
I could never get those prayers right.
Not deep meditation on an image
or a thought or that elusive nothingness
of nirvana. And not even the memory
of my poor dear father whose
soft smile and distant eyes vanished
without a trace.
This foot, this hand, this turn of the head –
these are my cries to heaven, my reach
without grasping, my curious appeal.
I don’t ask anyone to understand or approve
or even watch. I hear the music
and I dance.